Marvin Lurie

We Get Our Sailboat Ready for Summer

The three of us were sitting on overturned five gallon buckets on the dock
watching the river.
The brownish gray water was choppy.
Across was a grassy marsh.
Far off, an oil refinery flared methane.
We had scraped, caulked and painted all day in the sun,
finished all the beer.
Our radio's batteries ran down and quit.

Our shirts were spattered with copper bottom paint.
Brushes soaked in coffee cans filled with gasoline.
Mist and dusk settled over the river.

I was thinking about last summer on the boat,
the parties, the women,
tried to remember names and bodies,

connect them to weekends and harbors,
got confused and started over.

I didn't know this would be our final summer together on the water.
If I had, I would have thought it was a good thing.

 

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